Post-Gig Vibes

Scene: Post-Gig Vibes. Dim Light. Loud Hearts.

You were packing up your sticks when Seth dropped onto the amp beside you, sweat-slick hair falling over his eyes, bass still slung over his shoulder like a goddamn weapon.

He nudged you with his knee. Just a little. But he’d been doing that since high school.

“So…” he said, voice low. Teasing. “Skater boy’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You didn’t look up. Just kept coiling your cords like you weren’t already buzzing.

“He’s a fan. That’s all.”

Seth smirked.

“That all it takes now? A couple of compliments and a half-decent jawline?”

You finally looked at him.

He was closer than he needed to be.

Like always.

There was history there—unspoken, buried under late-night jams, shared rides home, and one night you never talked about again. The one where his fingers had brushed your waist after a show and neither of you moved away.

Not then. Not for a long time.

You raised a brow, voice smooth.

“Jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stared at you, mouth twitching like he had a hundred things to say and none of them safe.

“You ever gonna tell him?” he said quietly. “That you don’t play music with just anyone.”

Your throat tightened.

“You ever gonna stop caring?”

He stood, but not before tapping your drum case—two quick beats. Your rhythm. Yours and his.

And as he walked away, he called over his shoulder:

“Just remember who was here before the board boy, Moon.”

Practice had gone late. Again.

Ryan bailed early. Mark left chasing some girl with a sleeve of tattoos and a bad reputation. That left you and Seth.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, drumsticks resting on your knees, head tilted back against the wall. He was tuning his bass absentmindedly, half-watching you like he always did when he thought you weren’t looking.

“You’ve been off lately,” he said.

You didn’t flinch.

“I’ve been busy lately.”

“With him?” he asked, like the word tasted wrong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer.

So he set the bass down. Crossed the floor.

Sat next to you. Too close. Legs touching, breath warm against your neck.

“You think he gets it?” Seth murmured. “This life? The exhaustion. The adrenaline. The nights where the only thing keeping you from breaking down is the beat under your hands and the bass in your chest?”

You stayed quiet.

You didn’t trust your voice.

“Because I do, Moon. I always have.”

You turned slowly. Looked at him.

His eyes weren’t asking—they were remembering.

That night.

That near-kiss backstage.

That one time you both drank too much and ended up tangled on his couch, skin on skin, breath to breath—and then swore to forget it the next morning.

But neither of you ever really did.

Before you could say anything, your phone buzzed.

A message from Jen.

“Skatepark. Midnight. Just me and you. No crowd.”